sooo this is part of another scratch project i shared too but this is the longer version. it's called an interesting shade of gray, and it's the first few pages of a book i'm writing. i wanted to submit a different one but it's kinda inappropriate for scratch so yeah Prologue Two figures stood isolated in a dark alley, even the moonlight not daring to illuminate them. “You’re younger than I expected,” mused the taller of the pair. He was over six feet tall and burly, and spoke through a black mask that hid the majority of his face. “I’m eighteen, and more efficient than anyone you’ll meet,” said Vice, narrowing his red-irised eyes. He was very short, and yet Vice spoke to the man as if he could overpower him any day. As a matter of fact, he probably could. “I’ll do it for no less than a thousand,” Vice told the man. “A thousand it is. Half the money now, and half on completion.” He thrust out a wad of bills, and Vice took them, scanning them briefly before stuffing them in his bag. Bank accounts were too risky to be shared, after all. One could easily be tracked if one gave that detail away. “Remember- not a single hint that she was killed. It must look like an accident,” the man insisted. Vice nodded briefly and turned away, disappearing amid the shadows. The man stayed, the crinkle of his eyes hinting a cold smile. He waved a hand, and two of his henchmen emerged from their hiding spots. “Tail him,” he commanded. “And when the deed is done, kill him. Nobody can trace this back to me.” *** “Mr. Brooke,” said a beefy man with flaming red hair plastered to his head. “This decision is final. You cannot waste your effort on something that refuses to yield. It is time to admit that this case has run cold.” “Please, sir,” protested Aaron Brooke. “This case has been the sole reason why I became an investigator. Give me another month. I’ll find something.” Memories flashed through Aaron’s mind. He would find the criminal responsible for his best friend’s death. His supervisor huffed. “A week. One week to find solid proof that your criminal exists, or I’m moving you to another case.” Aaron’s brow set with determination and he nodded, leaving to make use of every minute he had left. *** Aaron slumped against his pillow, his photographic memory recreating every detail perfectly. He and Xeno had been as close as two friends could be. Xeno had been two years younger than him, and yet he was always the first to fend off bullies. Aaron was the meek, shy nerd with the round glasses and Xeno the quiet synaesthete who was fierce when provoked. They had been practically inseparable… until that fateful day. Xeno had been acting… odd, to say the least. He had barely spoken a word since the morning, and Aaron could tell that something was on his mind. They would walk home together each day, and yet when school ended, Xeno hesitated. “I… think it would be best if I walked home by myself today,” he said. His telltale fingers fiddled with a loose strand of hair, making his restlessness evident. “What’s up?” Aaron asked. “You’ve been acting weird all day.” “Yeah,” said Xeno, looking down at his feet. “Sorry about that, but I promise it’s nothing big. I just… I’m tired. I haven’t been sleeping lately.” There were dark circles under his eyes, but… “What aren’t you telling me?” Aaron pursued. “Nothing, okay?” Xeno snapped. His face fell slightly. “It’s just, my dad’s away on work again and this time he’s in Sudan, which is still war-torn and…” “And you’re worried about him,” Aaron finished. Xeno nodded, his hand instinctively rubbing the back of his neck like it did every time he was upset. Aaron draped his arm over his friend’s tense shoulders. “Come on. He’ll be fine.” And he was, alive and well to hear the news of… Aaron would never forget that night. The note in the evening. The blood. The single, achingly familiar scream. The hollow feeling of the loneliness to come. He shuddered, forcing himself to remember every horrifying second, scouring his brain for anything he might have missed. 1- Epiphany Vice stood with his lean body flattened against the ledge, his dagger clutched in a white-knuckled fist. A tremor ran through his hand, making the silver dagger slip slightly and he stumbled to get a better grip on it. Must be the cold, he tried to convince himself. He was in the middle of a frosty English winter after all, inching carefully along the narrow ledge jutting out from the castle wall. He saw a window out of the corner of his eye, and the corners of his mouth twitched with relief. “The princess’ bedroom,” Vice murmured. It was almost over. A simple job, really. The child lived on the fourth storey of the palace- high enough for her to sustain fatal injuries if her “accidental” fall was hard enough. He could slit her throat for good measure, and it would be over.
Vice stood next to the window, allowing himself a breath. He had memorised the handmaidens’ routines. Nobody but the princess was there on the floor. Perfect. He would come in with the dagger, making the scratches look as if she had had a very bumpy way down. Then he would toss her off, and vanish. Nobody would be able to find any proof. No fingerprints. Nothing. That was, after all, Vice’s specialty. He always hit the mark, and he never left a trace. He glanced inside. The princess sat on her bed, cuddling a plain-looking doll. The girl’s golden hair fell in silky curls, and her smile reflected in her deep blue eyes. She was only six years old… There were so many toys around her that were probably priceless, her furniture intricately crafted. And yet the simplicity of being a child- the most worn out thing in the room was her favourite. Did the girl really deserve to leave so soon…? Why did the man want her dead, anyway? Vice shook himself. What was he thinking? The man was clearly part of some intricate power play. Vice was merely the assassin, with orders to obey. But power… at what cost? He checked the watch circling his pale, thin wrist. Nearly eight o’clock. The Queen would be there soon, to kiss her beloved daughter good night. Vice had to hurry, or he would miss the brief window of time he had left. He moved in front of the window, touching it with his gloved fingers. It was already open a crack- all he needed to do was push it. And yet his hand refused to obey. He had to do it fast… there was barely a minute to spare… What was wrong with him? He had pulled off so many other assignments, murdered so many other people- why wasn’t he able to kill the child? Tap. Tap. Tap. Footsteps. Vice ducked away from the window, his fist clenched in annoyance. Sloppy. He had never overthought anything before. He had but one task… and yet, as the queen walked in, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bittersweet scene. “Come on, sweetie, it’s bedtime,” said the queen, stroking her daughter’s hair. “We’re going out tomorrow, and you need your rest..” “But Mummy, I want a story,” protested the girl. “Please? I won’t be able to sleep without one.” The queen laughed. “All right. Just this once, and then you’re off to bed.” She walked to the shelf, picking out a brightly coloured book. The queen had so much to do. She was practically the most important person in the country, yet she still made just enough time for her daughter. Then why did… Vice ran a finger along the edge of his blade. He couldn’t do it. He had let his feelings get the better of him. He was such an idiot… His past was past. End of story. Vice couldn’t let it get in the way of everyday life. And yet, it was too late for Vice to change anything. That had been his one moment to kill the girl, and he had missed it. Now that it was lights out, the place would be patrolled by guards, and Vice would never be able to set foot in the room without being caught. The next day, the family would be going out for the entirety of Christmas. For the first time, Vice had… failed. He dragged a hand down his face, not knowing how to respond to the unfamiliar situation. Repressing a sigh and trying to form an excuse to give his employer, Vice scaled down the castle, uncharacteristically oblivious to the two figures hastily retreating from his line of sight. *** He walked along the dark alley, his hands stuffed in his silk-woven pockets. A black jacket covered Vice’s shirt, the hoodie drawn over his head. He was staying at the Ritz under the name of Robert Evans that night.
